


Blinding Ice and Endless Winter

by ookaookaooka



Series: Blinding Ice and Endless Winter [1]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ookaookaooka/pseuds/ookaookaooka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Elsa’s winter never ended, our anonymous protagonist has taken it upon himself to find a way to stop the winter and melt the ice. But everything is no longer as it seems in Arendelle. Queen Elsa has locked herself away in an ice-laden castle, many of the inhabitants have fled, and where on earth is Anna?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s get this party started. I think it’s safe to say I have never written anything quite like this. This is the most difficult, and the most fun, piece I have ever written. I really, really hope you like it, because I have one hell of a wild ride planned for this one.

 There is no sound quite like a snow-silence. The frigid air is still, paused as if at the peak of an inhalation, the birds and animals that would normally create the ambient noise that is the backdrop in any rural town hunker down in their insulated beds, conserving heat. Unnatural noises -- a woman’s shout, the creak-crunch of heavy boots on packed snow -- echo strangely in their absence. Snowflakes, large and wet and falling thickly, mute the world.  
  The world dozes.  
  Such are the streets of Arendelle -- cold, silent, blanketed white. The snow is so deep it has become an abstract of a town: valleys indicate streets, hills hide rooftops, blue-tinted tunnels mark doorways; all edges are softened by the snowfall, as if the town is a sandcastle that has been caught by the first wave of high tide. No lamps have been lit. No one has bothered to light them. Squares of yellow light flicker dimly from a few houses, but fuel is precious now, a thing to be hoarded, lamps to be used only in dire need.  
  A group of four people crosses the market square, carrying a fifth between them. Snow has accumulated on the bright fabric of their overcoats, reducing them to shades of black and gray; they are distinguishable only by their height. Their footprints disappear in the time it takes them to reach the second house from the end.  
  The tallest, a man with tired gray eyes, ducks as they enter the door-tunnel, pale, scarred hands adjusting to find a better grip on the fifth figure’s wrists.  
  “Careful!” says one of the women carrying the fifth’s legs as they cross the threshold. “Don’t drop him. Set him by the fire.”  
  As the three shuffle around to lay the prone, coat-wrapped form of the fifth on the hearth, the fourth, a child no older than seven, pushes at the man’s legs, trying to get a glimpse of the figure’s face. Chunks of snow, dislodged from her boots, hiss as they skitter within reach of the flames.  
  “Anika, get back,” says the shorter of the two women. “You’re getting snow all over him. Go hang up your coat by the door and put your slippers on, then you can help.”  
  The child sighs, then does as she’s told, remembering to clap the snow out of her boots before she puts them down. Blonde hair spills like water from her hat as she removes it and hangs it neatly above her coat.  
  “Blankets,” says the short woman, motioning to the child, who dashes up the stairs like a cricket evading a hungry bird, ricocheting off the wall at the top with an audible thump in her haste. The short woman rolls her eyes.  
  On the hearth, the man -- for it was a man -- groans and coughs, cradles his left arm against his chest. Heat from the fire touches his core through the many layers of his clothing and his body responds by shivering violently, kindling its own warmth with tremors that shake him from head to toe.  
  “Anika! The blankets!”  
  A pile of woolen blankets land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, followed a moment later by the child, jumping down from five steps up. “Here, Mama!”  
  “He’s coming round.” The taller woman knelt by the man’s head, loosened the scarf that was knotted around his neck and pulled it down from where it covered his face, revealing a long freckled nose and strong chin. Hazel eyes fluttered, half-melted snow still caught in his lashes.  
  “What’s wrong with him?” asks the child. “Why is he dressed so funny?”  
  It was true; beneath the blanket the child’s mother tucks around him, the man’s coat, though obviously meant for winter weather, is a good deal shorter than the coats of the other adults in the room, and of a different cut. The material is different, too, thinner, the wool more finely woven.  
  “He has gotten too cold,” says the taller woman, “and he has been injured, somehow. His arm, look. It’s lucky we found him when we did.”  
  Eyes wide, the child creeps up next to the tall woman and brushes the man’s face with her pale, delicate fingers. “Too cold . . . like the squirrels?”  
  “Yes, like the squirrels.” The tall woman looks up at the man, who was adding another log to the fire. “Dear, could you see if there is any tea left?”  
  “Of course.” The man vanishes into the dimness of the other half of the room.  
  On the hearth, the figure is moving sluggishly, rolling onto his back, trying to free his arm from the blanket. Through teeth that are chattering so hard they are audible from across the room, he speaks.  
  “Wh-where . . . am I? I’m . . . freezing!”  
  “You are in Edwin’s house, in the town of Arendelle,” says the tall woman. “We found you out on the fjord, half frozen to death.”  
  “I spied you first!” says the child. “I saw your coat under the snow, and then Mama and Ea and Edwin carried you back here.”  
  “My arm . . .” The man pushes the blanket off of his chest and gingerly rolls up his sleeve, baring his left forearm. A bruise, purple and black and ugly, discolors the flesh below his wrist, as if he had blocked a blow from a blunt weapon. “Ew.”  
  “Can you move your fingers?” says the tall woman.  
  Long, wiry piano-player fingers tentatively clench and unclench. “It hurts a little, but yeah.”  
  “Good, it’s not broken.” The tall woman relaxes visibly. “How did it happen? Do you remember?”  
  “I . . .” The man frowns, closes his eyes. “It was cold, a-and I was w-walking . . . across the . . . the fjord.” His eyes open, suddenly remembering. “I fought -- something. A monster. A s-sort of man, wr-wrapped in ice. I shot him, but--” The man’s good hand flies to his hip, grasping for something that wasn’t there. “It’s not here! Where did it go?”  
  “That sounds like one of the Queen’s Sentries,” says the tall woman. The adults in the room exchange glances.  
“My belt, it’s gone,” says the man. “And -- _aagh_ \--”  
  Blood, black in the firelight, is smeared across his fingers when he lifts his hand from his side. A vertical tear in his shirt sags open to reveal a shallow gash, oozing blood.  
  The kettle whistles and Edwin re-emerges, carrying three steaming mugs in each hand. The man accepts his gratefully and takes a sip, hardly tasting it, relishing the warmth that is seeping back into his extremities.  
  “I’m surprised he made it this far,” says Edwin. “The Sentries are ordinarily more attentive than that.”  
  “Let’s get you out of that coat,” says the child’s mother, and she helps the man sit up and remove the sodden garment. The others take that as a cue to remove their own outdoor clothes, and soon a row of coats, hats, and boots have joined the child’s on the wall next to the door.  
  “Perhaps the _dyret_ frightened them away,” says the tall woman. “Perhaps today’s snowfall was too thick for them to run. Either way, we have a very lucky man on our hands.”  
  “Or very unlucky.” Edwin runs a hand over his bald scalp, scratches his beard. “It would have been luckier for him if he had died. This is a harsh place for outsiders. Few can survive long here without the Queen’s blessing.”  
  “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about your injuries,” says the child’s mother. “Medical supplies are . . . not plentiful now. We could bandage that cut, but that’s all unless you have something life-threatening you haven’t told us about.”  
  The man shakes his head. “No, no need, it’s a shallow cut. See, it’s pretty much stopped bleeding already. My shirt, though . . . do you have anything to sew it up with? I’m afraid I lost my spare out on the fjord somewhere.”  
  “I’m sure there’s a needle and a scrap of thread here somewhere.”  
  The child gulps her tea, heedless of its temperature, gripping the mug between both of her tiny hands. Her blue-white eyes lock onto the man’s with an unnerving steadiness, and she sits herself Indian-style in front of him, her back to the fire, setting her mug on the hearth beside her.  
  “So why are you here?”  
  Silence in the house.  
  “Um,” says the man, “here as in here by the fire, or as in here in Arendelle?”  
  The tall woman gives him a flat stare. “What do you think, Outsider?”  
  “. . . Right.” Breaking eye contact with the group, he settles himself more comfortably on the floor, wrapping the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “I am here to investigate the source of this blizzard and, if possible, to stop it. To put an end to this winter, as it were.”  
  “That’s easy,” says the child. “Queen Elsa’s the one making the blizzard. She’s the only one who’s strong enough. But-- oh.” Her face falls, and she looks at him with pleading eyes. “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”  
  “If that’s what it takes,” says the outsider. “I mean, that’s my last resort. I intend to talk to her, first, to convince her to stop the blizzard.”  
  “Good luck with that,” says Edwin. “She doesn’t take kindly to outsiders. You’re not the first stranger to try and halt the snow, and you probably won’t be the last. Nobody comes out of that castle unscathed, _if_ they come out at all.”  
  “A fool’s quest.” The tall woman crosses her arms, shaking her head sadly. “We go to all the trouble of rescuing you and all you want to do is go and pester the Queen. Next you’ll be running out onto the fjord and challenging the _dyret_ to a duel.”  
  “No need to be upset, Ea,” says Edwin, wrapping a gentle arm around her, planting a kiss on her temple. Ea frowns, but sighs and leans her thin form against his bulk.  
  “It will just be another needless death,” she says, frustration and sadness and anger all evident in her tone. “We have already lost so many . . .”  
  “I promise you, I will not be another loss,” says the outsider. “I am not going to die.”  
  “How can you promise that?” says Ea. “How can you know, for sure, what the Queen will do?”  
  “I can’t,” says the outsider, “but I am confident that I will come out alive. Please, you just have to trust me.”  
  His words are met with silence and stony glares from around the room.  
  “Listen,” he says, “do you want this winter to end or not?”  
  Noncommittal muttering.  
  “Do you?”  
  “We do, but morally we cannot assist in the murder of our Queen,” says Edwin at length. “She may seem cold and cruel to you, but she has helped us in ways you cannot imagine. We would not betray her trust in such a way.”  
  “I’m not asking you to help me kill her, if it comes to that,” says the outsider. “You have already done more for me than I expected anyone to do. I will stay here for the night, and then in the morning I will go to talk to the Queen. It will be as if I never existed.”  
  The child’s mother smiles and ducks her head. “It was nothing.”  
  “I have only one thing to ask of you.”  
  Wary glances between the adults.  
  “I need to find my weapons belt. I lost it out on the fjord somewhere, and I need it before I can see the Queen.”  
Edwin swirls the dregs of his tea. “That’s a tall order. Look outside, it’s been snowing all day. Your belt will have been buried long ago.”  
  “But there was wind out on the fjord, it kept the snow from sticking. I remember I was walking on clear ice, only an inch of snow at most. It will be difficult, but possible.”  
  Something unspoken passes between the adults, clear in their worried faces and tense shoulders. A secret is in the air. Then Ea sighs, downs the last of her tea, sets the mug on the mantelpiece.  
  “We will help you, Outsider,” she says, “but not today. We’re losing the daylight, and going outside in the dark is not . . . advisable here.”  
  “Tomorrow, then,” says the outsider.  
  “Tomorrow.” The child’s mother stands, brushes ash off her blue-and-red skirt. “I’m afraid we don’t have a spare bed for you, though, we’ll have to make do with blankets.”  
  “You are very kind.”  
  “Is the hearth all right? For a place to sleep, that is.”  
  The outsider nods. “I’ve slept in more uncomfortable places. I’ll stay up for a while and make sure the fire doesn't die.”  
  The child yawns suddenly and stretches, casting long flickering shadows with her arms. Her mother pulls her gently onto her lap. “Time for bed, I think.”  
  The little group around the fire dissipates, Edwin and Ea leaving to wash the mugs and clean the kitchen, the mother chasing her child up the stairs with tickles and kisses, until only the outsider is left, sitting in his blanket, staring into the snapping flames. Eventually the couple retire upstairs, too, leaving the outsider alone.  
  Using the small, square-ended shovel leaning against the wall to his left, he consolidates the fire into a pile of ash and embers at the back of the fireplace and adds another three logs to the top, ensuring that the fire will smolder all night and keep the flue clear of snow. Then he removes his shoes, setting them out to steam next to the coals, and rolls up a second blanket to use as a pillow.  
  Tomorrow, he will find his belt and see the Queen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not meant to be this long. It’s literally twice as long as the first one, and I’m pretty sure this puts BIaEW at a higher word count than Agape. Heh whaddya know. I’d’ve liked to get this done before midnight so I could post it while everyone was still awake, but whatevs I said I’d post it tonight so I’ll darn well post it even though it’s almost 3 AM. Oh well.

 Stiffness in his side and an ache in his arm force the outsider’s eyes open when the sun was still low enough to glow blue through the snow covering the windows. Beside him, the fire smolders lazily, coughing the occasional spark up to melt any snow that comes inside. Goosebumps prickle down his arms as he cups his hands over his mouth and nose, warm dragon’s breath seeping out between his fingers in his futile attempt to thaw his face, last night’s cup of tea only a pleasant memory.  
  Bare feet patter down the stairs, cold fingers poke his shoulder. It is the child, crouching in her nightdress next to him, pale eyes luminous in the dim morning light.  
 “You’re awake,” she whispers.  
 “So are you,” says the outsider, matching her volume. “It’s awfully early for a young sprout like yourself to be up. Aren’t you cold?”  
 The child looks down at herself, as if noticing for the first time that her nightdress is there. She shrugs. “It’s not so bad.”  
Heavier footsteps on the stairs announce the presence of the child’s mother. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you she likes to rise early. She didn’t wake you up, I hope?”  
  “No, no, I was already awake.” Unfolding his stiffened legs, the outsider heaves himself up onto his feet, back protesting from the night spent on the hard floor, scabs over the cut on his stomach cracking painfully as he stretches. His blanket slides to the floor with a _fwump_.  
  “Oh no, your shirt,” says the child’s mother when the gaping hole over the cut catches her eye. She lights the stove, setting a pot of water over it to boil, though the burner would be cold for a while yet. “I quite forgot that it was ripped. Anika, go upstairs and find a needle and thread for our guest -- not so loud, you’ll wake Ea and Edwin!”  
  The couple comes downstairs anyway twenty minutes later, as the child’s mother spoons hot oatmeal and smoked salmon onto five plates and sets them neatly around the table. The outsider tucks his needle into the fabric of his shirt, folds the garment carefully and digs into his breakfast like a starving man, feeling the plain food banish the hunger he hadn’t even known he’d had.  
  “This is excellent,” he mumbles through another mouthful.  
  The child’s mother laughs. “You must be hungry, to compliment it so. It is the best we can do, given our . . .”  
  “Situation,” supplies Ea.  
  “Yes, our situation,” says the child’s mother. “Nothing grows when the ground is frozen solid, and hunting has been poor for a long time. Importing is out of the question.”   
  “Nobody would want to trade with those of us who choose to stay here,” says Edwin. “They would think we are witches, to survive here for so long.”   
  “. . . They wouldn’t be half wrong,” mutters Ea into her tea.  
  “And Queen Elsa has chosen to remain inside her castle from the start,” Edwin continues. “She would not sign trade agreements or what have you if they were shoved under her front door.”  
  “What’s the story with the Queen?” says the outsider. “Why does she hide away in there? What’s she doing?”  
  “We don’t exactly know.” Edwin sets his spoon on the edge of his plate, wipes his mouth with a clean linen napkin. “She’s always been a shy one. She used to emerge quite often, back when the curse was new, and help us in any way she could, insulating houses, collecting and stockpiling food and so forth. But then the _dyret_ showed up and started rampaging all over the fjord, and, well, we’ve hardly seen her since.”  
  “Maybe she’s scared,” says Anika, speaking up from around her spoon. “I’m scared of the _dyret_.”  
  “Aren’t we all,” says Ea quietly.  
  “What is the -- _dee-ra?_ ” asks the outsider, his tongue tripping over the odd word.  
  “One of the monsters of the ice fields,” says Edwin. “The biggest one, as far as we know. We don’t know where it came from or how it got here -- but then again, we don’t know where all the other monsters came from, either.”  
  “Except the Queen’s Sentries,” says Anika.  
  “Presumably, they’re all part of Queen Elsa’s curse,” says Edwin. “The frozen fjord, the constant snow . . . if she can do all that, who’s to say she can’t do more? A few monsters are well within her power.”  
  “The monsters of the fjord are hardly ‘a few’,” says the child’s mother. “Between them and the Queen’s Sentries, there must be over a thousand . . . things, out there, crawling across the ice.”  
  “Well, you’re doing a wonderful job of boosting my confidence,” says the outsider drily. “I still need to find my belt, remember?”  
  “Ah, yes. The impossible quest.” Edwin’s spoon grates against his plate as he scoops up the last bites of oatmeal. “You’re still bent on getting it back?”  
  “Absolutely.”  
  The child’s mother reaches across the table and pulls Edwin’s empty plate to where he can’t reach it, halting the incessant scraping. “Stop that, you old pessimist. It’s not going to be as difficult as you might think,” she says to the outsider. “The monsters are, for the most part, slow and stupid; as long as you see them coming you’ll have time to run away. And the Sentries--”  
  “Didn’t one of those attack me?” says the outsider.  
  “You don’t need to be afraid of them as long as you’re with us,” she says.  
  “I’m not scared of the Sentries!” says Anika. “I’ll protect you, don’t worry.”  
  “We’ll all protect you,” says her mother, hoisting the child into her lap. Anika swipes a snippet of salmon off her plate and pops it into her mouth. “And depending on the wind, you won’t need to worry about the _dyret_ either.”  
“What does the wind have to do with anything?”  
  The table shakes as Edwin pushes himself up. “If the wind is blowing in the right direction,” he says, “all the monsters and Sentries and so forth collect at the east end of the fjord, as far away from us as possible. That’s what was happening yesterday when we found you, that’s why we were so surprised to hear that you had been attacked. Though in truth, one can never be completely sure that the cove and the ice fields surrounding the castle will be free of monsters.”  
  “Wonderful.” His last bite of oatmeal is suddenly cold and claggy and entirely too unappetizing to eat. He stirs it halfheartedly around his plate.  
  “Oh, don’t look so discouraged,” says the child’s mother. “We’ll help you find it.”  
  Anika wiggles, impatient to start the day, so her mother slides her off her lap and sets her to washing the dishes as the others finish. The outsider shifts his chair to a position by the window, so the thin light that trickles through the snow falls across the shirt on his lap. At the table, Ea remains seated, slowly bringing each bite of oatmeal to her mouth, grumbling and squinting when Edwin lights the lamp, though she relaxes when he stands over her and rubs her shoulders.  
  “Can we go outside now, Mama?” Anika’s small fingers clutch at the roughspun fabric of her mother’s skirts, tugging again and again until her presence is acknowledged.  
  “Go get dressed first,” says her mother. “You can’t go running around in the snow in just that.”  
  Anika squeaks happily and vanishes up the stairs.  
  “Don’t forget your mittens today!” says her mother as the girl reappears at the top of the stairs, dress on back-to-front, a pile of thick woolly things spilling out of her arms, hopping on one foot as she tries to pull on a second knitted sock. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, take more than two seconds to get ready! Put those sweaters down -- not on the stairs! -- what did I just say?”  
  A landslide of brightly-dyed wool tumbles down the stairs to land at Anika’s mother’s feet, followed by Anika herself, half-in and half-out of a thick, shapeless sweater. The outsider laughs.  
  “That girl will be be the death of me,” says her mother, gathering up the dropped sweaters one by one, snapping the first at the girl’s rump to hurry her out into the main room.  
  Anika skids across the floor, all bubbly snow-day excitement and seven-year-old energy. Her hand closes on the outsider’s arm, which startles him and makes him drop the shirt, yanks him upright, and pushes him towards the door. “Who’s coming with us? We’re going outside to look for his belt.”  
  “Whoa, whoa, take it easy,” says the outsider, trying and failing to keep his sewing on his lap. “I’ve got to tie this knot first. I can’t go outside without a shirt.”  
  “Why not?” Coats and hats fly through the air, bouncing off his stomach, and slide down to the floor in a heap.  
  “Anika, Anika, let the poor man finish what he’s doing.” The child’s mother catches her by the shoulders and steers her to the smallest coat. First one arm, then the other are caught, stuffed through the sleeve of the coat, and capped with a mitten, accompanied by earsplitting shrieks and constant wriggling. A hat -- with a snowflake pattern and a braided tassel -- is crammed onto her head, and then the child is released and she runs crazily around the room, her shrieks blending into an improvised song.  
  “Would you just go outside already?!” Ea, still nursing her mug of tea, drops her head onto the table and covers her ears. “I’m staying here, where it’s quiet.”  
  “You two go,” says Edwin, “I’ll stay here with her and we’ll join you in a minute.”  
  They leave the house in a tangle of coats and emerge blinking from the door-tunnel. The outsider rubs his nose as the cold air burns into his lungs, aching and tingling like a sneeze is imminent, though one never appears. Today’s snow is small and granular, crunching underfoot; it falls sparsely but at a steady rate, like water droplets on a steamy window. The early-morning sunlight is gone now, replaced by a mat of low-hanging snow-gray clouds.  
  “Come on!” Anika bounces through the snow, lifting her boots high above the drifts, prancing like a royal horse. “You guys are so slow!”  
  The outsider stumbles as she catches his hand and drags him across the market square and off the edge of the docks, where she pulls him down into a snowdrift. “Come on, we’re going to find your belt!”  
  “Anika, slow down, he hasn’t found his footing yet,” says her mother. “Let go of his hand -- let go of his hand -- Anika!” Powder billows into the air as she jumps down next to the outsider and pries the child off his arm. “I’m sorry, she’s not usually like this. Anika, stop, it’s time to be polite.”  
  Feet shuffle through the snow towards them. Edwin’s heavy leather boots and bearded face appear over the snowbank on the docks, followed by Ea’s skirt and grumpy expression. “Everything all right?”  
  “Yes, we’re fine.” Anika’s mother shakes snow out of her skirt, tucks a strand of wispy gray-white hair back up under her hat.  
  Edwin jumps gracefully off the dock and offers his hand so Ea can climb sedately down the snowbank. They link arms like dancers and the group sets off across the ice, Anika skipping ahead as if she was on normal ground, the outsider lagging behind, slipping on every other step.  
  “Look!” Anika slides twenty feet through the group, coming to a perfect stop beside the outsider, pointing to something caught in the fibers of her mitten. “Queen Elsa’s happy today!”  
  A perfect, six-pointed snowflake is balanced on her hand. The outsider squints at the tiny thing. “That’s good, right?”  
  “Wrong.” Edwin turns back to address the outsider. “If the Queen is happy, that means there is no wind. Nothing to keep the monsters away.”  
  “Oh.” The outsider wilts. “That’s not good.”  
  “Don’t worry! We’ll protect you!”  
  “But what if the -- _whoop!_ ” The outsider takes a single step, then his feet slide out from under him and he crashes onto his behind. “ _Ow!_ What if the _dyret_ shows up?”  
“Nothing we can do about the _dyret_ ,” says Edwin.  
  “Are you all right?” The child’s mother rushes over, helps him up. “Here, lean on my shoulder. I’ll make sure you won’t fall.”  
  “Thanks.” The outsider’s teeth flash in a quick smile. “How do you do it? Why aren’t you guys falling all over yourselves, too?”  
  “Years of practice.” She sets off again at a slower pace, letting the outsider find his footing. “Try to keep your weight over the leg in front, that’ll keep you from falling backward.”  
  “But that looks ridiculous!”  
  “It’s better than hurting yourself.” Her eyes crinkle in a smile.  
  “I feel silly,” he mutters, but does as she suggests anyway, and finds that the shuffling waddle covers more ground than walking normally.  
  Soon, they pass between the stone towers that mark the entrance to the cove. At least, they are probably stone, judging by the colors and patterns showing through the thick, blue-black sheath of ice that coats both structures, twisting into ridged spires twice the height of the towers, with lace-thin struts bridging the gap high above their heads. Beyond that, the white expanse of the fjord yawns, interrupted by odd, broken formations, black against the pale snow-dusted ice. Dead husks of ships, hulls crushed by the curse, masts long since snapped off, brittle tatters of sails still dangling by frozen lines. The ice is holding them up, preserving them even as it had destroyed them, like insects in amber. The silence is absolute.  
  “Be on your guard,” says Edwin. “The monsters rarely come so near the cove, but the Sentries gather here sometimes. I think the Queen enjoys their protection.”  
  “Anika, come hold my hand,” says her mother. For once, the child complies, and trots obediently over to stand at her mother’s side, the side not occupied with supporting the outsider.  
  “Do you remember where you lost the belt?” asks Edwin.  
  “I think I lost it when the Sentry attacked,” he says. “Yes, I remember, it slashed right through it when it gave me this cut. I couldn’t tell you where, though, it was blizzarding and I couldn’t see a thing.”  
  “If you dropped it when you were attacked, then it can’t be far from where we found you,” says the child’s mother. “Over to the left a ways, and out onto the fjord.”  
  The wind is stronger on the other side of the towers. The outsider hunkers down into his coat, pulling his scarf up over his nose and ears, tugging his hat down low over his eyes. Snow -- the steady spitting of flakes from the sky, combined with the inch that had accumulated on the ice -- blows in irregular clouds across the plain, stinging any exposed skin, freezing streaming eyes and noses. It isn’t strong enough to impede their progress, but strong enough to be a nuisance.  
The snowfall changes. Not gradually, like a normal snow, over the course of an hour or more, following the shifting temperature; this is immediate, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, one moment tiny, perfect flakes, the next wetter, shapeless blobs of snow. Visibility plummets.  
  “That wasn’t natural,” says the outsider. “It sends shivers up my spine. Snow doesn’t _do_ that.”  
  “Blame the Queen,” says Edwin, gripping Ea’s elbow tightly. “We’d best be moving quickly.”  
  They clamber over the buckled ice at the prow of the nearest wreck. Something stirs and glints in the shadows of its ruined hull, ice creaks and something shatters. The outsider turns his head away; if he doesn’t see it, it doesn’t exist, if he doesn’t see it, it doesn’t exist, if he doesn’t see it--  
  He sees it.  
  “Run!” He lets go of Anika’s mother’s shoulder and the ground shoots up at him and smacks him hard on the chin, knocking the breath out of him.  
  Anika’s mother helps him up again, and pats him on the back until his breath returns. “It’s okay, there’s no need to panic,” she says. “It’s just the Queen’s Sentries. They don’t like you.”  
  “I … noticed,” says the outsider between painful gasps.  
  “Really, there’s no need to be worried at all. They’ll stay away from us.”  
  The glistening, crawling movements in the ship’s shadow grow stronger, more numerous. “Oh, really?”  
  “Yes. Come on, I think we’re almost there.”  
  Another minute’s shuffling brings them to a part of the ice plain that looks indistinguishable from the rest to the outsider’s eyes, but the others seem to recognize it. He cautiously releases his hold on Anika’s mother as the group spreads out to cover more ground, sifting through little drifts of snow with their mittens and boots.  
  Time crawls by, measured in snowflakes that fall almost as quickly as the outsider can brush them away. The knees of his pants are quickly soaked through from kneeling on the snow, chilling his flesh. His nose drips.  
  Then, the next swipe of his glove reveals a leather strap, half-buried under a pile of snow, stiff and frozen from a night out on the fjord.  
  “Hey, guys!” The outsider grabs the strap and tugs. It doesn’t budge. “I think I found it!”  
  Footsteps crunch across the ice towards him.  
  “It’s stuck,” he says. “Help me dig it out . . . see, this part is all iced over.”  
  No answer.  
  “Guys?” A terrible suspicion is taking over his stomach. The outsider looks up. “Edwi--”  
  Standing over him is a figure that is very much not Edwin: eight feet tall and wider than an ox, covered from shrunken head to clublike foot in dense black ice. Faintly visible at its core is the shape of a man, like a diver in a deep sea diving suit, withered by frostbite, dead eyes open and staring, mouth gaping in a silent mirror of the outsider’s own expression. The ice writhes and moves around it, pulsing like veins, and he could see parts of it growing, changing shape, forming a bladelike extension on the right arm, raising it above its head--  
  He realizes what is about to happen and rolls aside as the arm smashes against the ice where his head had been. He scrambles away, crab-style, too unsure on the slippery ice to stand up. “EDWIN! EA! Someone, HELP!”  
  Plates of ice fall away from the Sentry’s arm as it lifts it again, its frozen exoskeleton re-forming and rearranging itself to create a new blade. It turns around, quick as a snake, and swipes at the outsider for a second time.  
  One good thing has come of its first attack, he notices: the downward strike has shattered the ice locking his belt in place and the leather is now floating free on the ice. The outsider backs up, backs up until his boots find purchase on a patch of rougher ice, then dives forward under the Sentry’s next blow and slides ungracefully on his belly. His gloves close on the cracked leather.  
  The Sentry turns, tendrils of living ice crawling up its legs from the fjord with every step, preventing any kind of slippage. Numb hands scrabble at the belt, shaking so hard they can’t find purchase on the right clasp, then he snaps his hands up and fires two shots into the Sentry’s head.  
  The Sentry staggers, shedding ice from two bloodless holes, and then little Anika steps out of nowhere and smacks it hard on the hip, sending it flying. It travels much farther than it should have from such a small blow, icy armor breaking on impact forty feet away. The girl lifts her hands in the air like she’s raising a parachute and the ice boils around it, rising up and trapping it in a jagged, frozen column. The pistol falls from the outsider’s hands.  
  “I got him, Mama!” Anika skips back to her mother, who is running towards them out of the falling snow. Clouds of frost around the girl’s hands dissipate slowly, leaving trails in the air. The outsider must’ve gotten separated from her and the others as they searched. “Just like you taught me! It was easy.”  
  The outsider stares, eyes wide, seeing the group differently for the first time. Disparate things were falling into place: their easy running on the ice, the way the child’s mittens dangle, their loosened scarves and open coats . . . the way all of them had blonde or white hair, the way they were still living here after all this time . . . He should have known!  
  “You’re witches, aren’t you?” he says. He picks the pistol up again, cocks it, aims it at the group. They stop in their tracks.  
  “No, we’re ice mages!” says Anika, stepping forward without fear. “See?” She summons a sphere of ice from the fjord and catches it like a returning yo-yo. “We’re the best!”  
  “Is that true?” Anika drops her sphere in indignation. “Can the rest of you do it too?”  
  “Of course it’s true,” says Ea, yanking off her mittens and stuffing them under her arm. A burst of glittering ice appears above her flat palm, then drifts to the ground.  
  “Then why didn’t you--”  
  “We didn’t tell you because your kind are the reason why we have to live here!” Ea steps forward crossly, heedless of the way the outsider’s gun moves to point at her alone. “When the Queen’s curse first came upon this land, it touched all of us in different ways. Some it killed outright. Some, like me and Edwin and Katarina, felt the curse lay its fingers on our hearts and woke up the next morning with hair the color of the snow. Other people felt nothing, and became afraid of us. We are too much like the Queen.” She takes another step. “My own son was one of the ones who fled. No one Outside will trade with us, let alone shelter us if we try to leave. Outside, we’re freaks, but here . . . Queen Elsa loves us. She taught us to use our powers, she created the Sentries to protect us. Now will you quit being silly and put down that gun?”  
  “I -- well --” The outsider’s grip wavers. “How can I know I can trust you? What else aren’t you telling me?”  
  “I promise you, that is the only thing we were hiding.” Edwin steps forward too and stands next to Ea, and they both advance slowly, hands held out before them. “That is the only thing we had reason to hide.”  
  “Well . . .” The outsider squints at them, coming to a decision. “Okay.” He lowers the pistol.  
  As if on cue, a blast of wind hits them like a wall, knocking everyone over. The outsider tries to rise again, fighting against the almost solid stream of air, only to be tackled by Ea running in a crouch at him.  
  “Stay down!” she yells in his face over the scream of the wind. “It’s the _dyret!_ ”  
  “I thought you said it wouldn’t come here!” he shouts, but his voice vanishes before it reaches her ears.  
  A shadow like death falls over the fjord.  
  Massive wingbeats pound the air like thunder.  
  It is longer than a ship, longer than five ships, as tall as the castle wall behind them. The solid ice of the fjord shudders as its four claws touch down. The wings -- impossibly huge, a blue-white ceiling between their heads and the sky -- clatter and crinkle and collapse inward, to be tucked against the dragon’s sides. It is the dirty green-blue color of glacial ice, compacted over eons until it can reduce mountains to gravel, and its coat has the same pulsing, writhing quality that the armor of the Sentry had. Snow changes direction mid-fall under the intensity of its gaze. The outsider cowers.  
  But it isn’t interested in him. The _dyret_ opens its jaws, large enough to swallow a house, and with the inexorable force of the rising tide, bites off the column containing the defeated Sentry. Chunks of ice fall from its mouth in an arc as it raises its head. Its immense size makes it appear to be moving in slow motion, delicate as a swan when it swallows the column whole.  
  Its flat eyes sweep over the five mortals crouched on the ice. Malevolence sweeps from it in sour waves, making the outsider quake like the last leaf on a tree in a winter gale. Its roar is the howling wind.  
  The wings snap open, expanding in a heartbeat to fill the sky, lifting up and up and up until they stir the clouds above, then it kicks off from the ground and throws itself into the heavens. The wind disappears with it.  
  “So that’s the _dyret_ ,” says the outsider, his voice watery and small after the power of the dragon’s.  
  “That’s the _dyret_ ,” says Ea, standing again and brushing snow off her dress with shaking hands. “Nothing we can do about the _dyret_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this one was a long time coming. What’s it been, two and a half months? I don’t think I’ve worked on this since Thanksgiving… I hope it’s good, I’ve been up all night and I’m in no condition to judge. (but hey, we actually get to meet canon characters this time!) Enjoy!

 The outsider's arms are shaking so hard he drops his belt three times before he can buckle it securely around his waist. His pistol slides back into place in its holster on the second try.  
  "Unusual choice of weapons," says Ea. She seems to have recovered completely from encountering the dyret. "I've never seen a gun like that before. And is that a sword?"  
  He pats the pitted leather of the sheath on his left hip. "Father insisted I bring it with me when I came here."  
  Ea folds her arms. "It's probably for the best that you brought it. You should know, bullets aren't much use against anyone or anything in Arendelle. Our powers will stop bullets, and the monsters and Sentries aren't alive enough for bullets to do them any harm."  
  "But the one I shot," says the outsider, "I hit it right in the face. It was about to die when--"  
  "It was damaged, yes, but not beyond repair," says Ea. "Getting shot isn't a pleasant experience at the best of times. That Sentry probably felt like it got kicked in the face by a horse, but it would've survived and killed you if Anika hadn't gotten to it first."  
  "I thought you said I wouldn't need to worry about them when I was with you," he says, a note of accusation coloring his voice.  
  "Only because we're very practiced at dealing with them," says Ea. "All right, you've got your belt, now let's get you somewhere safer. Katarina, are you all right?"  
  Katarina levers herself to her feet, holding a shaking Anika. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. We’re fine.”  
  “Let’s go.”  
  They return to the square, help each other climb the snowbank to the docks, where they gather, the outsider stomping his feet and rubbing his arms to keep warm. The ice mages have dropped all pretenses of being cold, and their scarves are loose, their mittens dangling by cords from their wrists. One cloud of misty warm breath leaves the mouth of one man.  
  Ahead of them, the ice-shrouded castle looms.  
  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Katarina says. “You are welcome to stay with us for a while, if you want. We’d be happy to host you.”  
  “Would we now.” Ea scowls. Edwin puts his arm around her. “What? There’s little enough food to go around, we can’t afford to feed another mouth. Let him stay with Ebbe and Andor up the hill.”  
  “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay,” says the outsider. “I have to do this. I have to follow through and end this winter.”  
  “Of course.”  
  “So, um,” the outsider continues, “Queen Elsa’s in the castle, right? How do I get in there? Is it dangerous?”  
  “It’s not dangerous,” says Katarina.  
  “. . . For us,” adds Ea.  
  Katarina ignores her. “The gates should be open, if our block is still in place.”  
  “If the Queen hasn’t shattered it, you mean,” says Ea.  
  “From there, you need to cross the courtyard--”  
  “--If it isn’t completely full of razor-sharp spikes like it was last time--”  
  “--and then pass through the main doors of the castle. Queen Elsa should be somewhere in there. We can’t help you direction-wise past that point, though; we’re not too familiar with the inside.”  
  “She doesn’t let us in very often,” says Ea.  
  “It’s probably changed since the last time anyway,” says Katarina. “And please, try to be . . . understanding with her. Her life has not been the easiest. We owe her ours.”  
  “In other words, don’t kill her,” says Ea.  
  “I sincerely doubt it will come to--”  
  “Promise you won’t,” says Katarina.  
  “Swear,” says Ea.  
  “All right!” The outsider looks them directly in the eyes, first Ea, then Katarina. “I swear I won’t. Happy? Now I’ve really got to get going.”  
  Ea and Katarina share a glance.  
  “All right, go,” says Ea. The outsider turns and walks as quickly as he can through the deep packed snow towards the long walkway that leads to the castle gate.  
  “Be safe!”  
  \----  
 He had thought it was cold out on the fjord, where the ice-flecked wind had numbed his nose and clouded his breath, but the temperature was noticeably lower inside the walls of the castle. Even through the many layers of his clothing, the cold bit into his flesh, searing anything it touched with numbing tendrils, forcing his streaming eyes into a squint. The outside air was balmy in comparison, and the outsider found himself wondering why he had bothered wearing a hat and scarf at all out there. This was true cold, bone-deep, the kind that even a hot sauna couldn't completely chase out of his fingers and toes. He shies away from it, hunching deeper into his coat, tugging his hat down lower over his ears, plunging his right hand into his pocket. The left he rests on the hilt of his sword, ready for anything -- or anyone -- who might appear.  
  There is no wind inside the castle, and the gloomy blue-lit halls echo with the creaks and groans of the ice that encase it inside and out, settling and shifting with the weather outside. The click of his boots on the ice-slick floors reverberate enough for a whole crowd of outsiders, and the harsh billow of his breathing is deafening against his scarf. Struts of ice, dark blue and glassy-smooth, form a labyrinthine forest within the halls, concealing windows, gluing doorways shut, partitioning off sections of the corridors for no logical reason he can see. Thick pillars, furry with their own frost, support the walls and ceiling, the wood and plaster bowing under the weight of the ice. One particularly large spike, twenty feet long and as thick as his thigh, nicks his shoulder through his coat as he passes, drawing blood which freezes within seconds, a hard ruby bead on the now-shredded wool.  
  Not a sound is heard from the depths of the castle. No sign of the Queen. The outsider presses on.  
  The screech of rusted hinges followed by a booming crash from behind him makes him jump out of his skin, and the room goes from under-the-ocean-at-twilight-dim to just-got-swallowed-by-a-whale-dark. Goosebumps tingle up his spine and down his arms, though he could have sworn that every hair on his body was already standing as tall as it could get.  
  He stands rooted to the spot for one minute, two minutes, three, as his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, listening to the rippling crackle of the ice as it shifts, moving in slow rhythmic patterns he doesn’t understand. This ice, like the armor of the Sentry and the dyret out on the fjord, has some sort of life to it.  
  “Queen Elsa?”  
  No response from the castle, though none was expected, and the crackling and shifting intensifies.  
  Down a long, slippery hallway, then through a set of double doors and into a room that is completely silent. His breath is like thunder, his heartbeat a drum, and he can hear his gut digesting what is left of his breakfast. At one end of the hall is a door; at the other, a vacant throne. Elaborate lacy structures, like snowflakes magnified a thousand times, stand like latticed screens on either side of it, displaying a symmetry so unerringly perfect it is dizzying. The outsider swallows hard, tightens sweaty fingers on the hilt of his sword.  
  His eye is drawn to the throne again, and he realizes with a start that it is not as vacant as he thought. A frail figure is nestled in the ice, knees drawn up to her chest, a tiny patch of pale pink swathed in the same blue-white as her surroundings. No crown is nestled in her wild blonde hair, yet there is no doubt as to her identity.  
  “Queen Elsa?” The outsider’s tenor tones resound off the smooth cold walls, as alien in this environment as the outsider himself.  
  The figure starts, eyes flash open. Around the throne, ice darkens in an instant, and jagged cracks race across its surface, loud snaps joining the echoes of the outsider’s voice. Confusion scurries across her features as she looks him up and down, taking in his too-thin coat and impractical cotton gloves, but then she comes to her senses and rises to her feet, all traces of the delicate creature in the throne gone, to be replaced by a queen standing tall and powerful -- and angry.  
  “What are you doing in my castle?” The only thing in the room colder than the ice is Queen Elsa’s voice.  
  The outsider plants his feet -- a task more difficult than usual in this castle -- and answers her in a steady voice. “I have come from far away to investigate the source of this eternal winter,” he says, “and I have come to end it. If I can.”  
  “Oh?” The Queen stalks closer. Her eyes are a disconcerting shade of cyan blue, almost turquoise, and the outsider tears his gaze away from them only long enough to notice the dark circles underneath them. They are perfectly level with his own; neither has to look up or down to meet the other’s. “And how do you intend to proceed? I’d be interested to know how you were going to wrest control of my powers from me.”  
  Caught off guard, the outsider breaks his stance. “I wasn’t going to do that,” he says quickly, “I was going to -- to ask--”  
  The Queen grabs him by the chin so she can look directly into his face and his voice dies with a pathetic squeak. Like a brand, cold burns its way into his skin, numbing through to the bone faster than he can blink. He struggles, bending away from her, trying to avoid her touch, but her grip is like steel and her eyes are sharper than knives; his efforts are futile. Frost from his breath coalesces around his mouth and nose.  
  “You were going to ask me politely to stop? Is that what you were going to do?” Air rushes back into his lungs as she shoves him away in disgust. She turns away and stomps back to her throne, her face unreadable. At her sides, her hands clench the sparkling, translucent material of her gown.  
  Blood drips from frozen, puffy lips and splatters on the invisible plane between the outsider and his reflection. Gathering together as much dignity as he can muster, the outsider straightens his spine and brushes ice crystals off his lapels, dragging a sleeve across his mouth, staining the worn cloth red. He spits, lips numb and clumsy, and speaks again. “That is what I intended, yes. Please, if you would just stop the winter, bring back summer . . .”  
  The Queen whirls to face him, anger apparent in the sharp lines of her body. “Do you have any idea how many times I have tried . . . Do you have any idea how much I want to stop it?” Tears glitter in the corners of her eyes. “Men have died trying to do what you ask. My people have died, because I could not stop it. Do you not think I have tried a thousand times to melt the ice, to calm the storms, so I might end my people’s suffering? Do you?!”  
  “No, I--”  
  “Then leave!” The Queen swings one hand in a sharp arc before her and from nowhere a wind springs up, choked with hard bits of ice that sting the outsider’s cheeks. The temperature plummets. In the center of the room, before the throne, the Queen stands, pale and beautifully dangerous.  
  In a single motion, the outsider draws his sword and sinks into a fighting stance. “I am willing to go to any length to end your curse, and if that means killing you, so be it.”  
  “Then you can die trying, like the dozens before you.” Her hand flashes, and a wall of ice-flecked wind hits him like a truck, sending him flying. Through the rows of delicate snowflake-screens he skids, reducing them to glittery wreckage, then he slams into the far wall and staggers to his feet. Eyes wild, blood trickling down his collar, handprint-shaped mark on his chin livid against his pale flesh, he hefts his sword and faces her again.  
  She attacks, shards of ice shooting up in an arc from her outstretched hand, but he is ready for her this time and dodges easily. Leaping over the line of spikes, he dashes in a circuit behind the throne, chopping down the lacy sculptures as he goes, the debris giving his smooth-soled boots better purchase on the slick floor. Elsa is right behind him, shooting one spike after another from her bare palm. A trail forms on the wall in his wake, spikes buried feet into the ice at the level of the outsider’s chest.  
  The outsider reaches the wall opposite the one he was thrown against with an ungraceful slide and a whirl of arms and braces against it to reverse his direction. He sprints for the throne, a spike sailing wide of his ear by three inches, vaults over the arm and launches himself at the Queen, sword raised for a deadly strike. At the crest of his leap a wall of ice springs up to meet him, and he topples to the right, tucking his shoulder at the last moment to turn his fall into a roll, sword glancing harmlessly off the ice. He springs up again, panting, hat askew, twirls his blade dramatically, and points it at Queen Elsa’s heart.  
  “I am not afraid of you!” he says, blood spraying onto the ice with every syllable.  
  “You should be,” says the Queen, and a whip of ice, liquid in its movements, strikes at him at waist level.  
  With only a second to react, the outsider flips completely over the attack, losing his hat and nearly his sword as well, and lands heavily on his feet two steps closer to his enemy, within striking distance at last. His sword swings down--  
  “Wait!”  
  Elsa’s shriek catches him off guard and he falters, his sword missing its target, his forward foot losing its tenuous footing. This is just the opportunity she needs: a giant fist of ice strikes him in the solar plexus, driving the wind from his lungs, sliding around him and solidifying until he is pinned like a beetle in a collection, head and hands free to wiggle pathetically as he struggles to draw breath. Before he can protest, Elsa kicks the sword out of his reach.  
  “I know you,” says the Queen.  
  The outsider gapes like a fish. His breath still hasn’t returned.  
  “I thought I recognized you when I first saw you, and I know that sword you carry. I wasn’t sure at first, I thought I might be wrong . . . Faces change, and it has been a long time since . . . anyway. As soon as you lost your hat, I knew.”  
  “You recognize me?” gasps the outsider.  
  Elsa gestures to the ice that binds him to the floor and it recedes, allowing the outsider to push himself up onto his elbows. Belatedly he makes a grab for his sword, but a slanted column of ice is already lifting it directly to Elsa’s hand. She turns it gingerly, examines the sigil etched onto the pommel, and sets it point-first in the ice, a spur raising itself from the floor to hold the weapon in place as she lets go.  
  “Westergaard.” The name drips like poison from her tongue.  
  The outsider’s hand goes up to run through his normally tidy red hair, previously hidden under his hat. “Yes . . .?”  
  Elsa’s knee collides violently with his chest and she is suddenly all sharp edges and angles again as she claws at his neck and screams into his face.  
  “What have you done to my sister, you son of a bitch?!”  
  The outsider chokes, feeling her breath sear the already-raw skin on his face, feeling her hands’ icy grip on his throat, cold as death. For a minute, they thrash together on the floor, then he manages to throw her off balance and breaks her grip, closing his own hands around her narrow wrists, grateful for his gloves. He drags her upright and holds her at arm’s length.  
  “What have you done to her?”  
  “I haven’t done anything to her!” He considers slapping her, to bring her back to her senses, but his words do the job just as well. Elsa reels and sags, and he finds himself holding her up by the wrists instead of holding her away. “I haven’t seen her!”  
“You haven’t--” She reclaims her hands and combs her fingers through her hair, leaving trails of frost in their wake. “He hasn’t -- if he hasn’t -- then she must . . .” Shaking her head, the Queen stands again and paces away. He turns to watch her, slightly mystified. “Maybe I could . . . maybe . . . if he still loves her. Yes, of course!” She faces him suddenly. “Do you still love her?”  
  “I--”  
  “Good.” Swirling her hand, the Queen directs streams of ice to repair the broken decorations. Casting a critical eye at her throne, scraped up and crooked from their fight, she leaves it and stands in front of him instead. “Then you must find her for me.”  
“I--what?”  
  “If you truly love her, you must find her. Find out what happened to her.”  
  “But--”  
  “Let me put it this way,” says the Queen. “You may go and find my sister, or you can stay here and fight me again. And this time, I promise you, I will not be so merciful.”  
  “But--” Stymied, the outsider grinds his teeth, trying to think. “I don’t even know where she is!”  
  “That is your problem, not mine. I last saw her at my ice palace. She . . . left, shortly before I was . . . unreasonably detained.” She glares at the outsider through slitted eyes.  
  “Okay,” says the outsider, “if I find your sister--”  
  “And bring her back,” inserts the Queen.  
  “And bring her back,” says the outsider, “will you end the winter?”  
  Elsa stares at him for a long minute, motionless, her crystalline dress glinting in the faint light that shone in through the skylight. Finally, something gives way inside her, and she seems less like a queen and more like the fragile young woman he had caught sleeping in her throne.  
  “Yes,” she says, soft, broken. “If you bring her back to me, I will try once more to end my winter.”  
  “Do we have a deal?”  
  “We do.” They shake on it, the Queen’s grip cold and pinched, the outsider’s, warm and reassuring though somewhat hesitant.  
  A tendril of ice pushes his hat into his hands. He jams it back on, grateful for the added warmth. “My sword--?”  
  “Not until you reach the door. I know your tricks.”  
  “You besmirch my honor!” he jokes, and makes his way quickly to the door. The sword slides toward him and slips through the crack just before it shuts in his face.  
  Several seconds pass before he can relax enough to pick it up, examine it for harm, and slide it back into its sheath at his hip. Then it’s back through the darkened, ice-hung castle and out into the blinding, snowy twilight, where a warm cabin waits at the end of the path to the castle gates, full of people who do not need its heat.  
  The outsider smiles.

 


End file.
